


The Four B's

by boomshine87



Category: Hellride
Genre: Drama, Drugs, Eric Balfour - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Hellride 2008, Humour, Larry Bishop, Michael Madsen - Freeform, Romance, dark humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-08-20 21:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20234434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomshine87/pseuds/boomshine87
Summary: The Gent lives for Bikes, Beer, Booty - but what about the fourth B - Bridget? She's Pistolero's daughter and turns up at Dani's Inferno after a few years away.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've never managed to find any Hellride fic, so decided to write my own. If anyone can recommend me any please let me know. Show me love in the comments also please! Also, please feel free to send in ideas or requests.

“Pretty little lady came in here earlier, asking for ya.” Dani told Pistolero as she handed out three cold beers.

“Really?” Pistoler’s eyebrows raised as he took a long sip of the cool drink. He looked to his left at the Gent who shrugged his shoulders. “She leave a name? Or a number?”

“No, turned round to grab a pen and paper but by the time I turned back round she’d ran out the door. Apple red hair all a blur.”

The Gent choked on his drink, and the two shared a look whilst Bix looked on with mild interest.

\----------------

“What are we doing?” Bix asked, taking a seat on his bike. He loved riding, but he’d been in the desert for hours and just wanted a cold beer and a game of cards and a shower back home.

“A girl with apple red hair came to Dani’s asking for Pistolero then she disappeared, apple red hair all a blur. Find the girl. Meet back here, nine o clock.” Pistolero said and drove off.

“What the fuck?” Bix muttered, starting his engine.

“Hey,” The Gent called to him, putting his gloves on. “You find the girl, be careful, she scratches.”

“Are we looking for a girl, or a cat?”

The Gent laughed and rode off.

\---------------

The girl found Bix. Her apple red hair had been dyed a mousy brown (should’ve been black but years of dying her apple red had messed with the end result).

Bix had given up looking at eight o’clock, and went to Dani’s. Bridget had walked in around twenty minutes later with a larger group of girls so Bix didn’t notice her until she was the only one sitting in the corner next to the jukebox. At five minutes to nine his curiosity peaked and took his beer, walking to her table leaning on the nearby post.

“You want another drink, sugar?” Dani asked.

“No thanks,” they replied in unison.

“You look familiar, do I know you?” Bix broke the awkward silence first. And she really did. Her eyes were familiar, face a little dirty from the desert. Her hair was once in a bun, but now fell haphazardly around her face, and it was an odd brown colour. The eyeliner on her eyes was perfect, but her eyes were bloodshot, bags under her eyes indicated tiredness. Dressed in simple jeans and black top she was plain - and plain people worried Bix. They were trying too hard to blend in.

She propped her chin up on the palm of her hand. Her nails were long, sharp, painted a pinky nude colour and a few of them were bedazzled with tiny jewels.

She scratches.

She shook her head no, to answer his question. He was about to speak again when the bar door opened and The Gent walked in heading straight to the bar, ridding himself of gloves, sunglasses and jacket and taking the beer offered by Dani. He walked to the table next to Bix and grabbed a chair. The girl in the corner never let her gaze falter from the Comanche.

The Gent pulled a chair, sitting on it the wrong way round. An awkward silence descended and all Bix could hear was the sharp inhale and exhale of breath from the woman. She was mad. She didn’t even look at the Gent - she was mad at him, Bix decided.

“So, you two have met,” The Gent’s gravelly voice broke the silence.

“Not really.” she replied tersely, eyes moving to the window as Pistolero pulled up outside on his bike, with Nada following. Another inhale and exhale - the girl also hated Pistolero or Nada or both. The woman stood, chair scraping back and she left the bar, leaving her bag behind.

“Was that her?” Bix asked.

The Gent nodded.

“She’s-”

“Don’t. Whatever you’re thinking, whatever you think you’re thinking - don’t.”

“Who is she?”

“Your sister.”


	2. Chapter Two

This is the moment Bridget had been dreading. Alone with Nada. She could pull the wool over her Dad’s eyes - even if he suspected she was lying he’d never let on. The Gent - well she couldn’t care less about him, or his new lapdog come half brother Comanche or Bix or Sonny or whatever the fuck his name was.

Nada would see right through her. Seek the truth in her lies.

“Spill it, little girl.”

And she did. She wasn’t really here for a dental nurse convention. Was that even a thing? The guy she’d been “seeing” was an asshole, had a girlfriend. He had too much to drink, got too handsy and Bridget had plunged a kitchen knife into his sternum. She panicked and she ran. She wasn’t even really sure if he was dead. That was a couple of days ago now and if he wasn’t already, somebody would report him missing. See CCTV camera of his car pulling up to her apartment, the neighbours would notice the smell and the CCTV would show he’d never left the apartment. She had left though, small suitcase in tow.

Of all the things Nada could do, she told The Gent. She couldn’t tell Pistolero as nobody could get him on his phone, and it was pointless telling Bix because he was still pondering the fact that he had a sister.

“Honestly, it’s not that hard to believe. I mean, Dad does put it around a bit.” Bridget had told him. “There’s probably more of us.” 

She could see The Gent looking at her, rubbing his chin with his finger, speaking quietly with Nada. Or more like conspiring. He approached her slowly and all she wanted to do was bolt but Dani and Bix were there and it would look too obvious. Nada already knew. She fucking knew everything.

The smell of leather, and cigarettes, a little bit of engine oil and aftershave that always permeated the air around The Gent was filling her nostrils. She could be deprived of all of her senses and she would still smell him. It was burned on her brain.

He gets close, bordering on too close, as leans on the bar with one arm. He’s so casual and cool that nobody (except Nada who knows) suspects a thing. She just has to keep it together, she thinks, as her knuckles go white from gripping Dani’s bar.

“Did you use a credit card?” His deep voice breaks through what little space there is between them. 

“No,” she replies.

“Rent a car?”

“No, took the bus,” she gives him a little more, her hands now dropped on her lap, nails digging into her palm. Ouch! She scratches.

“And you dyed your hair,” he observes running a lock between his fingers. She turns her head to him, the first time she’s glanced his way in a couple of years.

“Less obvious.” 

Finally her eyes meet his and of course they’re the same damn icy blue that they were before. And hers are the same green - green is the rarest eye colour, and it’s one of the only physical characterics she inherited from her father. Her face and build are all her mother. Her mannerisms, her quick wit and bright mind, are her father’s. It’s why he loves her - because he loves them both.

“Good girl,” he praises her and she’s about to fly off the handle and yell at him for being a patronising bastard when his hand rests on her shoulder and gives it a squeeze before he pushes himself off the bar and returns to Nada. That two second physically touch, the warmth of his hand, calms her nerves for the first time since she’d stabbed Wade.

\--------------

Once Nada and The Gent download Pistolero on Bridget’s escapades he asks Nada to look into the guy she stabbed. First off, is he actually dead? Has he been reported missing? Would anybody miss him? Is it too late to have him bought here for thinking he could try and hurt his little girl and get away with it?

The Gent is glad to get away, bury himself in beer and his feet in the sand - he’s beginning to like these desert parties. He’ll feel differently tomorrow when he’s hungover and has sand everywhere. He grabs some whiskey, talks with his friends and girls are hanging off him as normal. Dancing, sitting next to him, rubbing their bare thighs against his. He’s glad Bridget isn’t there. Her apple red hair is out of his sight and out of mind. Really.

And then there she is. Black jeans, a blackcurrant coloured hoodie that’s too big for her. Why is she wearing jeans and a hoodie in the hot desert? Her mouth is moving fast, she’s chuntering about something, brings up one hand to lean on a pole, lifts up a leg to remove a Converse trainer. She’s dressed so plainly and dull - the girls around him dressed in their underwear - but his hands are itching to feel her flesh. The small mounds of her breasts, the mole on her inner thigh she’s self conscious of, and he wonders if she still has that bit of eczema on the back of her neck that she scratches when she’s nervous, or tired.

Both her shoes are off now, and she’s waving them up and down, increasingly pissed off about the sand in her shoes. She gives up,defeated by the immense sand and away from his line of sight. 

He seeks her out.


	3. Chapter 3

It turns out Bix and Bridget are fairly similar in temperament. They take after Pistolero and the two siblings fight constantly. It is starting to give The Gent a permanent headache. Pistolero has already got a headache. If Comanche isn’t fighting with his sister, he’s fighting with The Gent. Pistolero sees a common denominator here, and wonders if he can just send Bix packing on a meditation retreat or something.

Pistolero breaks up yet another argument between his two children, and The Gent slips outside to the bar porch for some peace and quiet. 

\-----------------

Bridget’s been staying at the Ranch with Nada and her Dad, well, mainly her Dad as Nada’s been missing for a few days. Apparently “she does that”. Nobody seems worried. And Bridget has more on her mind. It’s been just over a week and she’s heard nothing of her victim - alive? Dead? Hiding under her bed to seek revenge? She isn’t sleeping and the ever growing bags under her eyes tell this.

Cutlery clatters on a plate and she’s woken up sharply from where she fell asleep at the kitchen counter. A little scream of surprise escapes as her body takes a few seconds to realise where she is, and a growl escapes her throat when she sees the Gent leaning against the doorway, a butter knife in his hand, and a fork on a nearby plate.

“What do you want?” she snaps.

“Pisolero wants me with you today.” 

He throws the butter knife on the plate, it clatters like before, and is now sitting with the fork. “Run errands or,” his hand waves in the air, “Whatever.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard. And I don’t need to run any errands.” She moves to the coffee machine, hands up in the air in defeat as she realises it’s empty.

“It’s not really a request, sweetheart.” He says softly, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket and tossing them towards her on the counter.She can’t decide if the kind donation is from her Dad (he feels guilty for missing some years from her life) or from The Gent. She doesn’t really care and she’s too tired to think it over.

“I’ll be outside,” he calls over his shoulder, flicking his shades on and whistling as he makes his way down the hall.

Bridget knows she can’t fight both Pistolero and The Gent on this. Truth be told, if The Gent is with her, she might be able to actually get a little sleep. So, she gets ready, picking out a sundress because holy hell the Arizona desert is fucking hot as balls. And just a few minutes later she opens the front door to see a sky blue old school classic Mustang waiting outside, engine running. She opens the passenger door and is greeted by a cream interior and a golden oldie on the radio. He pulls the car off smoothly, driving the speed limit in silence and she is transported back a few years when a day like this was cherished. Welcomed. Yearned for. 

He’d be driving his Plymouth, a deep metallic green, his pride and joy. The interior was walnut brown, lovingly restored. She’d sit beside him fiddling with the radio until she found a song they’d both like, lean into his side and his arm would either curl around her shoulder, or hand rest on her thigh, depending on his mood. Now, one hand is hanging out the open window and one on the wheel. Strange, because she can almost feel his warm hand on her thigh. She pulls down the hem of her dress.

He wishes she’d pull her hem down more because all he can see is her thigh and all he can remember is the good old days in the Plymouth where they’d take days of doing nothing but riding into the sunset, sitting on the bonnet eating ice cream, then steaming up the windows by getting freaky in the back seat.

“What happened to your Plymouth?”

“Sold it.” He replied simply, eyes focused on the road, hidden behind his sunglasses.

“Why?” she asked softly. The Plymouth was his Dad’s car, they wanted to work on it together but his Dad passed away before they could really make any headway on it. It stood dormant in a garage for ten years before she encouraged him to rebuild it. 

“Reminded me of someone that I couldn’t have anymore.” What was the point in him lying? He was too old for that.

“And who’s fault is that?” she snapped. 

He laughed. “Jesus Christ, I don’t know where you’ve been sweetheart, but you’ve picked up a fucking shitty attitude, and a shitty hair colour.”

She punched him in the arm and the car wavered slightly. “Ow! Fucking psycho you trying to get us killed?”

“No just you!” She bit back, and then there was an almighty pop, and the car spun out of control before spinning down a small embankment.

In the haziness that was his mind, The Gent could hear her screaming but fuck his body felt like it weighed a thousand tonnes and he couldn’t move. When the fuzz left his brain, she wasn’t there. The passenger door was wide open, the seat ripped - she scratches - and a shoe left behind.

He makes it back to Dani’s, babbling about Bridget being taken, constantly wiping his right eye because there’s blood coming from a wound on his eyebrow, he’s pacing back and forth as Pistolero sends Bix and a couple of guys out so they can try and track her. The Gent makes a move to go with them, but the fuzziness comes back, his body feels weighed down with an invisible force and he sinks to the floor.

\---------------------

He comes back round - again - in a Doctor’s office. He’s on a cold bench, lying on his back, Dani in the corner reading a magazine and his white shirt stained with blood, open to his navel. He moans, babbles about Bridget again, as Dani puts calming hands on his shoulders and pushes him back to a laying position before getting the Doctor. When she’s out of the room, he grabs his jacket - and a lollipop - and sneaks out the back door.

He doesn’t know who took Bridget, or why, but he knows just the person to help get her back.


End file.
